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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27612736">Middle Ground</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomebodyGetsIt/pseuds/SomebodyGetsIt'>SomebodyGetsIt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy Tactics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bigotry &amp; Prejudice, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Underage Sex, Voyeurism</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:41:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,365</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27612736</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomebodyGetsIt/pseuds/SomebodyGetsIt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Zalbag adjusts to life after the 50 Years' War, having lost his older brother. Barbaneth works with the former Dead Men to maintain peace in Gallione. Wiegraf tries to deal with the massive chip on his shoulder. AU, romance.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Zalbaag Beoulve/Wiegraf Folles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is an AU where Barbaneth survives past the end of the 50 Years' War. This fic is mainly a Zalbag/Wiegraf romance, and it was inspired by the Zalbag/Wiegraf fics of CorpseBrigadier here on ao3. The setting and idea for this fic was also inspired by CorpseBrigadier's suggestion in their ZombieSheep manifesto!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I am only allowed to attend this meeting because my lord brother is dead.</p><p>When Dycedarg still lived, they would not have even thought to invite me. After all, my role was to lead men in the field, not to bicker over how they would be paid. Before this, despite being a talented general, I was just a second son of the noble House Beoulve. </p><p>Now I find myself raised up to be the heir, and I suppose much in my life must change.</p><p>So, here I sit. Five commoners have been guided into high-backed chairs around our table, and I carefully avoid meeting anyone’s eye. My lord father, Barbaneth Beoulve, wears an expression of deepest concern and empathy for our guests. Seated to my right, our liege lord, Bestrald Larg, utterly fails to hide his boredom. I can see him using his pocket knife to scratch some pattern into the side of the table leg, as his foot impatiently jiggles up and down.</p><p>I wonder whether he still misses Dycedarg. I immediately recall the way Bestrald would often lean in to whisper something amusing to Dyce during a dull moment such as this. </p><p>I do understand my liege’s boredom. My father is the only skilled mediator in the room, and so Bestrald and I are simply here as ornamentation, to show that the lords of the realm are taking these rebels’ complaints seriously.</p><p>Myself, I choose a point on the table to stare at for a long while. My hope is that my father will take this to mean I am thinking deep thoughts, rather than ignoring their discussion entirely. </p><p>And I do plan to ignore it. I am disgusted that these men and women were granted a chance to speak with my father and Bestrald. In what world is it acceptable for the two greatest lords of a region to allow common foot soldiers to demand an audience? With the threat of further rebellion looming over it all, if the negotiations do not go to their liking?</p><p>It sets a terrible precedent. My lord father refuses to see that we are giving in to blackmail, giving in to terrorism, by simply allowing them to sit here with us. We should be out in force, hunting down every last one of these rogues. They have set themselves against the gods’ natural order, by disturbing the hard-won peace in our land. </p><p>I will not allow myself to hear any of it. I try to let their words float past me, through me. Words of starvation, homelessness, joblessness. Have these issues not always plagued the lower classes? Why should they now disturb my lord father? It is known that Saint Ajora oversees our lives, and chooses difficult paths for many to walk. We cannot change that basic fact, and nor should we dare to try.</p><p>I raise my eyes when one of the men suddenly raises his voice. </p><p>“It will take more than that to convince the others to have patience!” he exclaims angrily.</p><p>The rogue has nearly shouted at my lord father! Despite my resolve to ignore this whole fiasco, I cannot help looking to see who dares such a thing.</p><p>The man is obviously handsome, though he has the look of common stock. He removed his green cap when he first sat down, revealing a thick tangle of un-coiffed, sandy-colored hair. For all his talk of his soldiers starving without their pay, he certainly does not appear hungry. He is sturdy as a plow horse, and those shoulders would not be out of place on a blacksmith.</p><p>“We cannot draw blood from a stone!” my father says. “We will require time to accumulate the amount of gil in question. There is no other…”</p><p>I do not listen to the rest of his reply. I am still disturbed that this brigand dared raise his voice to his lord. I feel that I ought to rise from my seat, to strike him down, to insist that this farce of a meeting end now.</p><p>Bestrald continues carving into the table leg with his little knife, a far-away expression in his eyes. I catch a whiff of stale wine coming from his direction. It seems that where I failed to ignore these people, Bestrald has actually succeeded. I think he truly hears none of this.</p><p>My father speaks again, and I learn that the rogue is called Folles. I realize that the name is familiar to me; I remember hearing that Folles was the leader of the Dead Men at war’s end.</p><p>At least he has managed to watch his mouth, since his initial outburst. Despite myself, I listen carefully to everything he says, now. He is reiterating the number of soldiers, both living and dead, that he claims were shortchanged their pay for their service during the war. Then, he and my father resume their discussion of amounts of money that no one in this nearly-broken country has to spare.</p><p>Eventually, my lord father asks that the meeting be adjourned. He says that he wishes to have the night to consider what they have already discussed, before they resume their talks tomorrow afternoon.</p><p>He next addresses Bestrald, and arranges for Folles and his four common companions to be situated in guest apartments within Eagrose castle itself.</p><p>Has my father gone mad?! I imagine what Dycedarg would say, were he alive to hear of this. Nay, Dycedarg would have found a way to prevent this abominable meeting from occurring in the first place. I fear I am a pale substitute for him, as the heir to our house.</p><p>****</p><p>The following morning, I take the usual amount of time to trim my beard and neaten the edges. I do not allow my servant to help with this, as I am very exacting about its shape and length. I would cut my own hair as well, were I able. Sadly, I must trust others with that task. Being a true soldier at heart, I do not allow myself the long locks that my lord father is fond of. The rest of the men in my family have veritable lion’s manes on their heads, but my own red-gold hair is fine in texture and I prefer to keep it cropped closely.</p><p>I take one last look at myself in the mirror. I notice that my cheekbones appear more pronounced than usual, in my narrow face. Perhaps I have not been eating enough. I have not had much appetite since… Perhaps I have never had much appetite. Most foods leave my belly unsettled. Bestrald tells me I am a bore at feasts, when I barely fill my plate and refuse to touch the wine. I usually find myself searching for excuses to leave, while the others carouse and make merry.</p><p>Today, I may look forward to another long afternoon of bickering with commoners. </p><p>What has my life become? I enjoyed the clear sense of purpose that the war provided me. Times were difficult, but I think I am well suited to hard work. I felt myself to be a man on a great quest, with the blessing of the Saint upon me. Each day brought danger, but also new opportunities to make something of myself. I was ever-growing.</p><p>If Dyce still lived, then I might be more content in my current circumstances. Dyce never sat idle. His mind was a furnace, constantly churning. He effortlessly filled my free hours with requests and journeys and errands. </p><p>I enjoyed assisting him whenever I had the chance. Even serving as lord commander of the Order of the Northern Sky cannot use up every waking hour of my day, and it is best that I am not left to my own devices very frequently. </p><p>I was leading an army a few years ago, when news of my brother’s death was brought to me by a messenger. Dycedarg’s corpse was found in his bed one morning, the lips and fingers blue. There was not a mark on him, but he was not nearly of an age to have died of natural causes, everyone thought. So, my father hired chemists to examine the body and the room, and that was how we learned that Dyce had accidentally poisoned himself.</p><p>We all knew that he had a fascination with poisons. In his youth, Dyce dabbled as a chemist for many years, and the errands on which he sent me were often to local chemists, to pick up various exotic ingredients. </p><p>What we had not realized was the dark extent of Dyce’s fixation. Papers were found in his rooms, recording the small amounts of various poisons he had been inflicting on his person each day. The logs showed that he had been doing this for years, and slowly increasing the amounts over time. The chemists said that this was a little-known method of providing oneself with immunity to various harmful substances, and the records showed that Dyce had had an advanced understanding of the concept.</p><p>However, the papers also showed that Dyce had stopped recording his various uses of poisons approximately two months prior to his death. The chemists said that he had reached the maintenance levels for each poison over a year ago, and they speculated that he had grown overconfident in his memory of the amounts, leading him to stop recording his daily intakes. </p><p>They said that it was probably a simple mistake which killed Dycedarg. A chemist explained to my lord father that an accidental swap of the amounts of two different substances, or drinking too much wine that night, alongside the poisons, could have caused his death. </p><p>Now, I am the heir to House Beoulve, though it is a role I never coveted. Now, I must participate in meetings such as these, with Folles and his fellow rogues, when I would greatly prefer to be cutting them down on a battlefield.</p><p>Folles wears the same clothes as yesterday. I briefly wonder at the yellow scarf tied around his neck; it is an odd fashion choice. Folles and my lord father seem less ill-at-ease with each other this afternoon. Barbaneth is entirely too kind to these brigands.</p><p>Today, I find it easier to ignore their speech, as Bestrald continues to do. </p><p>I admit that I am no stranger to this sort of behavior. I usually did poorly in my lessons, before my schooling ended. I recall being thirteen and spending many weeks daydreaming as I stared at the back of a lad called Haimirich, who was always seated in front of me. His arms were thick as a grown man’s, and covered in coarse black hair. I have clearer memories of my constant arousal during the morning lessons than I do of anything the instructors tried to make stick in my head.</p><p>I never felt any guilt for my lacking school performance. The gods simply placed my talents in other areas. If the Saint wished for me to be studious, then I believe He would have provided me with a greater desire to focus.</p><p>I have closed my eyes and tipped my head back in a deep stretch, as my lord father and Folles continue to drone on.</p><p>In the background of my mind, I hear Folles suddenly demand, “Why is he even here?!”</p><p>There is a stunned silence in the room, and I open my eyes to find that Folles is staring pointedly at me. By the Saint, I have never seen such pure rage in anyone’s eyes. It is captivating. He looks as if he would destroy entire worlds only for the chance to hit me once. </p><p>I am not certain if I have personally ever felt such a strong sentiment as Folles shows now, at any time in my entire life. I know I am an odd man, but I am terribly flattered to have that look directed at me.</p><p>My father sputters, “This— this is my son! Lord Zalbag Beoulve, the commander of the Northern Sky.”</p><p>Folles’ glare of hatred does not change. </p><p>“Perhaps Commander Beoulve would prefer to go back to his chambers,” Folles snaps. “He appears to be too exhausted to hear any more of the misfortunes of my men.”</p><p>I sit up straighter. </p><p>My lord father’s teeth grind together. I am not sure if his anger is for me, or for Folles, or both.</p><p>“My son will not leave this room! I value his input, Folles.”</p><p>I smile at the indirect compliment from Barbaneth. Now I find that I am wishing my father, or even Bestrald, would sing more of my praises to this brute. I hope they will tell Folles that King Denamda IV called me the very “savior of Ivalice,” and praised my valiant efforts in the war. I hope they will tell this rebel that I was named a Knight Devout! </p><p>For some reason, I now greatly wish for Folles to understand that I. Am. Important. </p><p>Unfortunately, my lord father speaks not another word about me, and Bestrald still gazes silently at the wall above Folles’ head. The conversation moves back to the subject of the unpaid soldiers.</p><p>What is wrong with me? I scowl. In my prayers this evening, I will need to ask the Saint to forgive my sudden vanity.</p><p>In my youth, I assumed that I would have attained a state much like sainthood myself, by the time I was twenty-eight years old. Instead, my pleading prayers seem to only grow longer with each passing year. Every day I pray that the Saint, in His wisdom, will understand that my lord brother, Dycedarg, did not intend to end his own life. I pray most fervently that the gods will show mercy on his soul. </p><p>And, as always, I pray that the Saint will forgive me for my twisted desires of the flesh. I pray that I will be forgiven for giving in to temptation, even if only with myself. And now to all of this, I must add prayers for forgiveness for my pride and my vanity. </p><p>The gods set different challenges for us all, I remind myself. At least I remember the Saint each day, and keep up with my prayers. Gods forgive them, but Bestrald and my father certainly cannot say the same.</p><p>Plus, I doubt that the brigands sitting across the table have ever asked the Saint to forgive any of their trespasses. They seem utterly unconcerned with breaking the holy order of everything in our world, sitting here speaking to my noble father as if they were his equals.</p><p>I force myself to listen to the rest of the negotiations. I do not want Folles to have any further reason to accuse me of needing a nap. </p><p>Over the course of the afternoon, I learn that the hard-eyed woman sitting beside Folles is his sister. Her name is Milleuda, though I still have not heard the first name of Folles himself. I learn that my father plans to work with the Larg’s treasurers, to determine ways in which gil can be moved from one cause to another, to begin to pay some of these soldiers for their service. </p><p>Folles has finally listened to my father’s wise counsel, and come to understand that the money these soldiers are owed does not simply grow on trees in the palace gardens. Ivalice is bankrupt, and we cannot pass out gold we do not possess in the first place. Even we nobles dined on light fare this past winter. Everyone has suffered for this long war!</p><p>I think Folles believed that we feasted each and every night, our faces always slick with grease and dribbles of fine wine. I want to tell him that I ate no more than my men did, when we were out in the field. I want to tell him that there are many nights, even at Eagrose castle, when we sup on vegetable stew, with no meat. We are not the bloated gluttons Folles thinks us!</p><p>My lord father is clever (if overly kind), and he devises a plan whereby the former soldiers of the Dead Men will be paid their missing wages in monthly installments, over the course of the next year. Ivalice can just barely afford to do so, according to my father’s calculations, based on the numbers he and Folles have run through time and time again.</p><p>I am astounded when my father hires Folles, to act as a mediator in all of this, over the course of the year. My father says that he will need the assistance of Folles and the four companions he has brought to this table, if the plan is to succeed. </p><p>Folles will have to speak to the angriest of the rebels, to convince them that their pay will be forthcoming, even if not all at once. To convince them not to perform any further acts of terrorism in the meantime. At least the monthly payments will be enough to prevent their families from starving, my father insists. </p><p>Additionally, it seems we will need Folles’ help to simply make the payments. He and his friends will be able to confirm the identities of former soldiers who arrive to claim the monthly payments, and ensure that the faces match up with the names. Certainly, there will be swindlers who try to take advantage of my father’s charity. </p><p>We are expecting Folles to circumvent such problems throughout the course of this year, and my father is offering to pay him quite handsomely to do so. He further offers to continue to house Folles and his four companions inside Eagrose castle, until the business is concluded and we no longer require his assistance.</p><p>Of course, my lord father does not trust Folles well enough to leave the matter entirely in his common hands. My father’s treasurer, as well as Bestrald’s highly skilled calculator, will be present for every step of the process. </p><p>And, apparently, so will I.</p><p>My father has decreed that I will keep a company of knights close to the proceedings, whenever the back-wages are to be paid each month. Even if the former Dead Men manage to act honorably, there are always thieves who may think it worth their while to attack, when large sums of gil are known to be changing hands. </p><p>After our rebel guests have left the table, I complain to my father that I should not need to act as some glorified merchant’s guard. I insist that the task is obviously beneath me.</p><p>My father gives me an exasperated look from beneath his heavy grey eyebrows. He mutters something I can barely hear, but I think it sounds like, “…wish you would… time you get something else beneath you… no grandchild…” </p><p>He does not even properly acknowledge my complaint before leaving the room.</p><p>****</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please be aware that the characters' opinions in this story are not the same as the author's opinions. Zalbag is arrogant, prejudiced, and generally not a very nice person in this fanfic.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>My lord father is once more speaking of a potential bride for me, his new heir. This time, he says the girl is the daughter of a Romandan duke, and she would bring many chests of gil to fill our needful coffers, should I wed her.</p><p>My mind moves like a slippery eel. It is a fine line I walk with my father, to avoid marriage. He mentions a good match for me, and then later that week I mention my passing fancy to pledge myself to join the Church of Glabados, along with taking the required vows of celibacy. Perhaps a position within the Church has always called to me, I tell him. Perhaps I am similar to Cardinal Delacroix, who found that his skill with a sword did not prevent him from taking holy vows later in life. And, why, with my background, I am likely to be immediately promoted to inquisitor!</p><p>I have made these suggestions before, and I will make them again if I must. Still, I do not actually wish to formally join the Church. I prefer to keep myself busy, yes, but with tasks of my own choosing. I fear I would lose my sense of freedom, as an inquisitor.</p><p>Regardless, my father does not need to know this. It suits me that he is terrified by my threat to take vows of celibacy. He wants Beoulve heirs from me one day, and true Beoulves; not the mixed-blood mongrels that Ramza would produce, should I fail to sire any sons of my own.</p><p>When I speak of joining the Church, my father typically ceases to mention my marriage prospects for a few months. He thinks that eventually I will naturally discover my own desire for fatherhood, if he does not push me too hard in the meantime.</p><p>I would not despise being a father, really— I think most children are amusing. What frightens me, if I am candid, is the making of them.</p><p>I believe my anatomy to be entirely normal, but I often feel as though the gods forgot to bless me with some essential component for manhood. Over the years, I have heard my fellow soldiers speak of taking women, and of their great desires to take more women! And yet, alas, I cannot imagine myself boldly taking anyone. </p><p>I am left especially cold by the idea of bedding a virgin. In my mind, I can clearly picture what my own wedding night might be like, should I acquiesce to my father’s wishes: some pretty Romandan noble nervously clutching our blankets… and me nervously quaking a few feet away from her, utterly unstirred by the momentous occasion, and quite literally unable to proceed.</p><p>I am pleased when my lord father moves on to another topic. </p><p>The Marquis Elmdor plans to pay a visit to us, and so, my father and I will stay at Eagrose Castle a while longer before we make any plans to return to our own home, the Beoulve Manse. The Marquis makes sweeping claims that he intends to bring a troop of his own men to support us in our struggle with the rebels who threaten the peace of Gallione. </p><p>This is a genius move on his part. The Marquis owes Gallione a great debt of gratitude, because I brought my men all the way to Limberry when the Marquis was in desperate need of reinforcements to face the invading Ordallians. He knows as well as we do that the losses in his province would have been devastating, rather than simply average, had I not swiftly arrived with the Hokuten.</p><p>Now he claims he is coming here to return the favor, having heard of the recent peasant rebellions in Gallione. </p><p>However, the Marquis likely has friends or spies, or both, who have informed him that the rebellions have been largely eliminated due to my father’s bargaining with leaders such as Folles. The Marquis will bring his men as promised, but he brings them knowing that they will face little risk here, if any. When he arrives, he will certainly make a great show of pretending surprise that we have already managed the rebels without his help. And yet, his debt to Gallione will be repaid anyway, since he and some of his troops traveled all this way in our defense.</p><p>I do not mind, really, that the Marquis may be acting in an underhanded manner toward us. His visit will be partly in my honor, after all, and I do enjoy the company of Messam Elmdor.</p><p>We have even received news that our Queen and her retainers may travel to Eagrose as well! King Ondoria III has been very sick for some time now, and Queen Ruvelia has remained faithfully at his bedside throughout his illness. Bestrald recently received a letter telling us that thankfully His Majesty has made a sudden recovery. Our King does not yet feel strong enough to travel with his court, but his health appears steady such that Her Majesty feels she may leave his side without fearing he will pass in her absence. Queen Ruvelia says that she would like to visit Bestrald, who is her brother, here at the Larg family seat of Eagrose Castle. </p><p>I am in good spirits at the end of my discussion with my lord father. For once, there is much to look forward to. Eagrose Castle will be full! We have not had cause to celebrate in such a long time, and I have not seen Ruvelia since I was a mere squire. We will certainly arrange feasts and jousts in her honor, if the king’s health remains steady enough for her to visit. I enjoy jousting.</p><p>I wonder for a moment whether Rue will bring her son, the Prince Orinus, but then I remember he is still very young (I cannot recall how young, but I think maybe two or three years). She will not wish to subject such a small child to such a long trip, I think. </p><p>I still cannot believe Rue is a mother. There was never anything motherly about that particular Larg. I can more easily imagine Bestrald taking to the role! I assume the poor prince is raised entirely by noble widows, caring for him at Rue’s bidding. I daresay she would not waste her own time sitting around a nursery.</p><p>****</p><p>On this grey morning, we have set up a small workspace in the outer courtyard, not far from the bustling bakehouse. Our treasurers and calculators sit at a long table. Folles and his sister and his three other companions stand beside the table, though a chair has been provided for Folles, should he choose to sit down. </p><p>I have brought one of my lieutenants and his squad, which consists of two mounted knights, six squires, four monks, and five archers. I had the archers move up to the nearby towers on the wall. We guard the chests of gil that will be doled out to the former Dead Men throughout the next several hours. We know that we are in for a dull day’s work, as the mere sight of us all ought to be enough to keep thieves far away, as the soldiers file through to obtain their wages.</p><p>My squire attends my chocobo while I pace around, aimlessly surveying the proceedings. I know I sound like a child, but I hate this and I want to leave. I feel as if my reputation as a hero is dwindling with each minute that I stand here watching peasants collect their pay. There is nothing here for me to achieve, and the lieutenant most certainly could have handled this job without me. I am humiliated that my lord father has insisted I myself show my face.  </p><p>He says that the former Dead Men will be reassured that their concerns will be handled with care, when they see that the heir to House Beoulve is personally involved. He thinks my presence will restore their goodwill toward us.</p><p>I doubt it. Most of these grubby faces are staring off at Eagrose castle; awed by all of its cold, restrained glory. They scarce seem to notice me. When I tire of pacing the area, I stand near to Folles. Each beggar must pass this spot. If my father wants them to look upon my face, then I will make sure they have a clear view of it.</p><p>Folles collects details from each soldier, verifying their name and which of the smaller squads they served, or which dead soldier they are collecting money on behalf of. It takes a while.</p><p>After some time, I see that he talks to one specific man for only a moment. They both laugh and grasp each other’s hand, and then Folles helps the treasurer to mark spots on our papers, and the man is handed his pay.</p><p>That man was allowed to pass through the process far faster than the rest, I note with suspicion. A few soldiers later, it happens again and I feel moved to speak.</p><p>“Folles,” I say, from behind his left shoulder, “You did not put that man through the verification process.”</p><p>Folles turns to me, and he is still smiling from his prior conversation. I have never seen him smile before, and it hits me somewhere low.</p><p>“I know that man well! I had no need to put him to all of the questions,” he says.</p><p>At my blank look, Folles continues, “Did you not know the names of some of your foot soldiers during the war, general Beoulve?” He shakes his head. “No. I suppose you probably cared too little for them.”</p><p>Folles’ sister smiles now. “Oh, do show him some forgiveness! Learning the names of his men… why, that would be an awful lot of words for general Beoulve. They do say that it was his elder brother who was blessed with the brains of the family.”</p><p>Milleuda and her nearby companions chuckle loudly at this. Folles sucks his lower lip into his mouth and bites down hard on it. The face he is making would be adorable, if he were not making it in an effort to prevent himself from laughing at me. </p><p>I scowl at Milleuda. That I should have to bear her mocking me, while I am already caught up in this ridiculous charity work of my father’s…</p><p>I am glad Folles did not laugh. It is the only thing that stays me from lashing out at his cruel sister. </p><p>“Nothing more, Beoulve?” Folles says, after a moment. He gives me a look I cannot interpret. “Then I must get back to work, if we hope to pay all of these soldiers today.”</p><p>****</p><p>Around the time most other people have gone to bed that night, I walk to my favorite spot in all of the Eagrose castle grounds. There is a ladder attached here on the inside of the curtain wall, in this secluded spot equidistant between the stables and the gatehouse. I climb the ladder and then sit on the top of the stone wall, my feet dangling over the side, as I have done a thousand times since I first began staying at the castle as a boy.</p><p>From this vantage point, most of Eagrose city glimmers across the gently sloped plains below me. The view is breathtaking at night. I like to come out here alone sometimes— it helps me to manage my thoughts and find clarity. </p><p>I could use some of that tonight. I have been at loose ends ever since we made peace with Ordallia… I am constantly pondering, what is a commander without a war? </p><p>Today’s events have brought that feeling of aimlessness into the forefront of my mind yet again. I wonder whether the rest of my days will be filled with drudgery as well. I was a great war hero, but will anyone remember that a year from now? Five years from now? Am I doomed to spend the rest of my afternoons giving commands to lieutenants who already know damn well how to do the simple job of placing men to guard a castle? Will my every morning be spent dodging marriage arrangements from my lord father? </p><p>Eventually, I lay back along the top of the wall and look up at the cloudless night sky. This is my favorite place to be, and yet I cannot shake the melancholy feeling that has settled over me. I tell myself it is simply boredom, but I know inside that it is more. </p><p>I feel unimportant. And worse, I feel alone. The thought crosses my mind that if I fell from this wall right now and broke my neck, it might be days before anyone felt enough concern over my absence to even begin a search for me. </p><p>I know that Dyce would have noticed right away, when he was still alive… he, at least, always noticed my whereabouts. Without him, I am left with only acquaintances and subordinates. </p><p>I never realized how much I loved my brother until he was gone.</p><p>****</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Friendly reminder to please check that you are comfortable with reading content containing all of the content warning tags on this fic, since most of them are applicable in this chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>So far, this meeting has developed as I expected. The marquis Elmdor and one of his most favored knights (an unbearably handsome Limberrian who is called Oswyn) have joined me and my lord father around the table. </p><p>Folles and his companions are also present, as the marquis expressed an interest in meeting the rebels my father converted into his own assistants. Elmdor claims that he would like to hear their thoughts in case he must ever put down future rebellions in Limberry… Really, I think he is just curious to see them. I can already tell that the marquis thinks of Folles and his friends as the sort of odd creatures one might see in a menagerie. </p><p>Bestrald is not present. He claims to have a stomach bug, and is currently resting in bed. I’d understand if he wished to avoid another dull meeting with the rebels, but I’d thought he would find some enthusiasm to greet our visitors from Limberry. Perhaps he truly is ill.</p><p>I, for one, have greatly enjoyed this conference with Elmdor. He began the meeting by once more thanking me for bringing my men to his region’s rescue at the end of the war. I say, to have Folles present while all of this praise is heaped upon me… </p><p>Elmdor does bring one unexpected piece of news, however. His caravan was attacked while he passed through the Mandalia plains! </p><p>No one in his party was hurt. He tells us that the attackers were far too few in number, and seemed to have no idea what they were doing. Elmdor’s men killed them all before it occurred to anybody to keep one alive for questioning. </p><p>“It was no one from the Brigade,” Folles says. “Everyone has kept to the terms of the agreement we made. They have faith that Lord Beoulve will keep his word, and their pay will continue to be distributed each month.”</p><p>My father and I are actually inclined to believe Folles, in this case. Even if they were not keeping to the terms of our peace agreement, Folles’ rebels were better strategists, from what we saw of their terrorism. I doubt Folles would have allowed such a small group of poorly trained thieves to attack a caravan as large and well-guarded as Elmdor’s.</p><p>My lord father assures the marquis that we regret to hear he was attacked on the plains, but we are relieved that none of his men were lost in the fight. The marquis assures us that he came here to offer his assistance in protecting Gallione, and was pleased to have the opportunity to do so. </p><p>This naturally segues into a conversation between my father, Elmdor, and Folles about the rebellion, and how my father and Folles convinced the rest of the rebels to accept our bargain. </p><p>There is little input I can offer to this discussion. I don’t think my lord father will appreciate it if I tell the marquis I was against the peace-making. </p><p>Mostly, I just watch Folles. When he speaks to the marquis, he almost sounds shy. There is none of the contempt his voice held for me and my father, back when we first invited him here. His dirty blond hair falls into his eyes sometimes, too. He is quick to brush it to the side when that happens. </p><p>When that discussion is finally concluded, my lord father indicates that Folles and his companions may leave the meeting. Barbaneth and the marquis have moved on to more mundane topics, such as apartments within the castle and planned entertainments. </p><p>I catch my father’s eye and raise my eyebrows hopefully. If Folles gets to leave, then why not me as well?</p><p>Barbaneth looks slightly annoyed, but he turns to the Marquis and says, “Please excuse my son; he must now attend his other duties.”</p><p>Elmdor smiles genially. “Of course. Thank you again for your efforts on behalf of us all, general Beoulve.”</p><p>I thank him for his compliments, and I really am in a buoyant mood as I leave the room.</p><p>Just around the corner, I stumble upon an interesting scene. Folles and his four companions have stopped near to the three Limberry squires who were brought along to serve the Marquis. I am right on time to hear a stocky blond squire complaining that these rogues ought not be allowed to walk these halls.</p><p>True enough, I think. His words nearly mirror the ones I spoke to my lord father before the negotiations with the rebels began. Though I have no idea why a beardless squire from another province is loudly sharing his opinions at all. That type of boy infuriates me— the type who have never even been bloodied in battle, yet think they’ve the right to comment on the world.</p><p>Folles’ sister, Milleuda, seems to have been arguing with the blond before I arrived. She has raised her voice at him, exclaiming that she and her companions are no less than he; that they are here because her people have as much right to their pay and their livelihood as he.</p><p>The blond squire has noticed me standing several paces away, on the opposite side of him from Folles and the rest. I think he even realizes who I am, from the respectful nod he dips at me, even as Milleuda is speaking to him. </p><p>My presence does not seem to affect his confidence in scoffing at Milleuda’s claims, however. “You, no less human than we?” the squire says to her, “Now there’s a beastly thought! You’ve been less than we from the moment your baseborn father fell upon your mother in whatever gutter saw you sired! You’ve been chattel since you came into the world drenched in common blood!”</p><p>Milleuda looks enraged. “By who—”</p><p>Folles abruptly grabs hold of Milleuda’s hand. “Come. He’s not important,” Folles insists, through gritted teeth. </p><p>Milleuda seems to suddenly recognize that she is standing here arguing with a foreign child. She inhales deeply, and then turns her back.</p><p>I do not mind hearing Milleuda insulted. I am no friend to her, especially after her cruel japes last week. But I do agree that Folles has the right idea; there is no reason for her to continue arguing with this loud-mouthed teenager. She takes a step, with Folles still urging her onward.</p><p>“Yes, we give you our leave to walk away now, whore,” a dark-haired squire says.</p><p>Folles turns back sharply to face the boys again. The dark-haired squire standing next to the arrogant blond then chooses to spit in Milleuda’s direction. The wad of phlegm hits her skirt.</p><p>What sort of squires do they make in Limberry? I wonder. A nobleman does not spit like that. Even the mouthy blond boy looks a bit disgusted by his dark-haired companion’s behavior.</p><p>Now Folles’ body is tensed in the manner of a man about to begin a brawl, and it is Milleuda’s turn to grab onto his arm. “Wiegraf, it’s not worth it!” she says. He tries to take a step forward, and she grabs him harder.</p><p>He has that wild look in his eyes again, half rage and half hurt. I cannot bear to see him giving someone else that look. I cannot think of what will happen to him if he hurts the squire of our revered guest, the marquis.</p><p>Instead of waiting to find out, I pounce. I land on top of the loud-mouthed blond, as we both crash to the ground. I grab his collar in my left hand, holding him down as I pummel him with my right. My fist connects with his face three times before I realize that he is not even trying to fight back. He has simply turned his head and squeezed his eyes closed against the pain, his nose already bleeding, knowing that he must accept whatever I choose to inflict upon him. </p><p>If Folles had killed this squire, then he might have been hanged for it. But if this squire raised so much as a fist toward someone like me, then he would likely be hanged as well.</p><p>I abruptly jump off of him. Everyone in this hallway is staring at me as if I have suddenly sprouted a second head from my neck. I am the heir to House Beoulve, and I have just made a spectacle of myself.</p><p>To the bleeding blond wretch and his two companions, I mutter, “Mind how you speak to the guests of my lord father.”</p><p>They nod, chiming, “Yes, my lord!” Even the one on the floor.</p><p>I do not look at Folles as I hurry away. I feel an utter fool, as I retreat to my apartments. Once I am alone, however, I disregard the soreness in my knuckles and the small smear of blood already dried onto the back of my right hand. </p><p>I feel as if I have been given a little gift; knowing Folles’ first name. </p><p>Wiegraf. I quietly roll the two syllables around my mouth a dozen times or more. When I was a child, if a particular word struck me as pleasant to speak, then I murmured it to myself many times in a row. The last time Dyce noticed me doing this, he had cuffed me on the side of my head. He said the habit made me sound like a simpleton.</p><p>Perhaps he was not far off the mark. Wiegraf’s sister has already implied that I am lacking in intelligence. She is not the first to jape at my expense, and I doubt she will be the last. Especially now that I have made such a scene with Elmdor’s squires.</p><p>And for what? Because they were rude to a peasant? I know that Wiegraf would not have done the same for me, were it one of my family members insulted. </p><p>When I am ready to face the rest of the castle again, I go out and watch some of my soldiers doing drills in the courtyard. I spar with one of my squires who will soon be due for knighthood. Then I spar with another squire, and another. I intentionally exhaust myself, both my sword arm and my shield arm aching now. Every muscle in my body is tense.</p><p>I do not want to think about my humiliating behavior of this morning. When dinner is eaten and I have nothing left to do for the day, I think how it will be a great pleasure to see Ruvelia again, when she arrives here.</p><p>She rarely ever stayed at Eagrose castle when she was young, because her mother felt that children should be raised in the countryside. I first met Rue when she was finally allowed to stay one summer at Eagrose, under the not-so-watchful eye of her elder brother, Bestrald. I was concurrently on leave from Gariland Akademy, to spend a month or two with my own family during the worst of the summer’s heat. </p><p>I recall being only a little slip of a squire that year, nearly as slim as Ramza is now. I did well in my combat lessons at the Akademy, but I kept my head down in the barracks. Secretly, I feared the attention of my fellow cadets. I did not want them to know that I was still soft enough to weep when people said things that hurt my feelings. In my own estimation, I was nothing more than a wet rag at that age. </p><p>Nothing like Ruvelia Larg.</p><p>From the moment she arrived, she ordered the servants about as if they were her own personal handmaidens. She made Dycedarg carry her purse during our first walk through the courtyard. I noted, with great amusement, that Dyce looked positively incensed— a grown man of twenty-four years made to bend to the will of a spoiled teenager the moment she stepped out of her carriage. </p><p>Ruvelia even made my lord father laugh later that same day, when she commented that he filled out his tights nicely, for an old man. </p><p>I loved her immediately, though she seemed to hardly notice me in return. </p><p>I recall that I desired her much in the same way I wished to own a war chocobo or a legendary sword. I wanted her to be associated with me. Perhaps some of her fire would fill me, would change me from a soggy, wet boy into a strong, gallant man. Perhaps having her friendship would work even that unlikely magic.</p><p>Well into my adult years now, I recognize that I followed Ruvelia around like a maid-in-waiting all that summer. Where Dyce had resented being forced to carry her bag, I would have merrily done so. I would have done anything she asked. </p><p>I regularly put myself in her path, around Eagrose castle, and we came to know each other well. She may have been annoyed by my constant presence, but she did recognize that I could be useful to her, in my own way. She set me to spying on a lad she found comely, until I learned that he had been fucking a servant who worked in the bakehouse, and she promptly lost interest. </p><p>She sent me on errands, too, and she once had me ride clear into Fovoham until I found a peddler of the Japa Mala armlet she wished to own. She had given me some extra gil to buy something for myself as well, and so I came away from that trip with a new pair of winged boots, which were amusing (though I ultimately found them too unpredictable to even consider wearing in battle, in later years).</p><p>I think Rue was aware that my spying habits were not limited to the targets she assigned me. Still, I do not think she minded that I often stalked her about the castle, even on days when she told me to go away. I would stand a few feet outside a doorway, listening to her talk to others. </p><p>She especially liked to corner Dycedarg. In the study, or his private herb garden, or a solar… wherever he was, she often “happened” upon him.</p><p>It mystified me, why she so frequently wished to speak to Dyce when she already had me for a companion. Dyce seemed to begrudge her every conversation, while I reveled in any moment that she deigned to spend with me. </p><p>I fancied myself Ruvelia’s sworn knight, even though I was but a squire. She told me that she would be the queen of Ivalice one day, and I never doubted her. I told Rue that I would always remain by her side, if she would allow me to stay. I would be the queen’s chosen, the captain of her guard, the knight she trusted above all others. A life spent in service to her, I thought, would be a life most satisfying to me.</p><p>Ruvelia scoffed at the time, but she never said I could not.</p><p>Toward the end of the summer, my spying brought me to an unexpected sight. I think, this time, Ruvelia truly did not know that I was following her at a distance. She had entered the small, private chapel at the edge of the grounds, which was rarely used at this time of day.  </p><p>I was her knight-in-training. I thought it my duty to watch over her. </p><p>The door of the tiny chapel had been shut behind Ruvelia, but I risked opening it a few inches. If she heard the creaking of the door, then I planned to swing it wide, and pretend that I had come here to pray rather than spy on her.</p><p>Through the crack, I was at first uncertain of what I was watching. Ruvelia was down on her knees, her voluminous rust-red skirt billowing around her. It shifted, up and then down, again and then again. </p><p>I next noticed the pair of men’s boots behind her skirt, their toes pointed skyward. The light from the chapel windows painted them in multi-colored patches.</p><p>She was fucking him, whoever he was! I could not see his face, as Ruvelia’s back was mostly toward me, and the man’s face was just hidden. </p><p>In a trance, I watched her harsh movements atop this limp figure, and I heard a low voice beg her to slow down. He gripped her hips, and even from my place at the door I recognized the thick silver ring on the second finger of one of those hands.</p><p>I think I stopped breathing altogether.</p><p>Ruvelia stopped long enough to rip the hands away from her hips and then press them both to the stone floor beside his head. </p><p>I heard her laugh quietly, and him make an approving sort of groan. She kept Dycedarg’s hands pinned to the floor as she rode him. I wondered if it hurt: the backs of his knuckles grinding into the worn stone as she pressed down upon him. </p><p>I did not leave my post at the door. I could make up some excuse now— claim that I was guarding them from being discovered… To myself, though, I can admit that I simply enjoyed watching.</p><p>She turned her blond head to glance back at the chapel door, a moment later. She saw me— I am certain that she did. I found myself frozen, unable to duck away from her gaze. </p><p>Even so, Ruvelia kept at her task. My queen knew that I would never say or do anything to threaten her good reputation. </p><p>In time, Dyce worked free of her grip, and then he moved her body atop him as if she were simply a marionette in his hands. In time, their movements were merely shudders, and Ruvelia let out a brief, high noise.</p><p>I did not anticipate how quickly she would dismount from him when they were finished, and so I had the misfortune of watching my brother’s spent cock slap against his belly after it disengaged from her person. </p><p>All in all, that was the only moment I regretted witnessing, those many years ago.</p><p>I sometimes think it a shame that my father cannot marry me off to Ruvelia Atkascha. She may not stir me in the same manner as Folles, but I think I could submit to her demands, follow her orders. Unlike my late brother, I have always been a good little soldier.</p><p>****</p>
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